


Missed Opportunity

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-typical language, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Suggestive Aprons, Swearing, implied alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 20:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: After taking advantage of his first night off in ages, Simmons awakens in a strange apartment next to someone who is far from a stranger.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the RvB Bingo Wars (Red Team for Life).

Simmons doesn’t remember much from last night. To be fair, it all went down rather quickly. Free time isn’t a luxury they have often, and they all went pretty hard in a rather short amount of time. It was almost as if they had one night left to live, and therefore needed to squeeze a lifetime of fun into two hours.

A stupid fucking idea, in retrospect. And this headache is killer. Simmons can’t even _fathom_ opening his eyes right now, let alone attempt to recall the events from the night before, try to remember how he ended up…

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Simmons’s eyes fly open—only to slam shut once more against the sharp light blaring through the window. After a few beats he tries again, slowly this time, easing them open with the one care takes when opening a freshly shaken can of soda.

He blinks. Blinks again.

To be honest, he can’t take in most of his surroundings, not without his glasses. What he _can_ see, however, is the warm, snoring figure to his left.

Turning his head at the pace of a drugged snail, Richard Simmons confirms he is indeed next to Dexter Grif. More specifically, he is next to Grif— _in bed._

Grif is sprawled out as if he’s been tossed there, left arm and leg hanging off the bed, right leg tucked beneath him. Right hand almost— _almost_ —touching Simmons’s.

“Oh. My God,” Simmons moans, looking up at the ceiling. He can’t focus for shit, but he tries to count the tiles on the ceiling anyway.

The operative word being ‘try’—there are no ceiling tiles to count, just that fast-dry paint stuff you find in most apartments. It’s a nice change, seeing something besides cold metal walls. This bedroom feels open, softer, even if it appears to be spinning.

It dawns on him them that he has no idea where he is. Well, aside from in a bed next to Grif. It’s not the barracks. Judging from the tastefully arranged throw pillows on the loveseat across the room, the beige walls, and the silk sheets, it’s not Grif’s apartment. And it sure as hell isn’t Simmons’s apartment—he hasn’t had an apartment in years. Even when Doyle offered him his own place, he chose to remain at the base. Simmons isn’t one for change.

Are they even on Chorus?

He remembers the dive they decided to drink in, remembers the shots… remembers saying something stupid to Sarge… Doc paying the tab… Grif explaining to him why the bed was a much better option than the bathtub…

Too much—Simmons closes his eyes again, dizzy from his haphazard inspection of the room. His stomach churns. Tequila never sits well with him, body or mind.

What’s worse, he can only remember taking two shots. Back to back. And maybe an entire lime. Did he eat an entire lime? He hates limes.

Simmons may not remember much about last night, but it doesn’t take a genius to know he probably made a complete ass of himself.

In front of Sarge, no less.

In front of Grif.

Who is now in the same fucking bed with him.

“Fuck,” hisses Simmons.

“Will you quit whining?” Grif mumbles. “’M trying to sleep here.”

“Sorry.” He kicks himself internally. Even Simmons, who will never be known for his quick, scathing comebacks, can usually come up with something better than ‘Sorry’. Then, even though he _knows_ Grif is already dozing off again, he pipes up, “Grif?”

“Jesus— _what_ , Simmons?” Grif sighs. He pulls his left leg onto the bed and under the sheet.

“Never mind,” Simmons says, chickening out. He kneads the sheets clutched in his hands. His mechanical arm whirs in protest and he lets up a bit.

“Whatever, Simmons.”

Grif’s breaths slow once more; he’s clearly unbothered by the situation. Simmons considers going back to sleep as well, burrowing into the sheets and enjoying their warmth. And Grif’s.

“Grif?”

“Simmons,” Grif groans, “if you don’t spit it out, I’m going to be awake for hours while you decide to say whatever the fuck it is you want to say. Please, for the love of sanity, _what do you want_?”

“How did we get here?” Simmons asks.

“Sarge called Grey, and she picked us up,” he says. “We all ended up here, and you were so gone, I wanted to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep or something. What was it you had? Two shots? And an entire fucking lime. Such a lightweight.”

There’s humor in his voice, despite his grumpy demeanor.

“Oh, shut up, Grif,” he retorts, turning so his back is facing Grif.

“Hey, _I’m_ not the one who can’t hold their liquor,” Grif protests. “Hell, even Doc could drink your nerdy ass under the table.”

The door swings open and Donut is standing there, wearing what appears to be an apron with a pink heart on it. There are words there too, but without his glasses, Simmons can’t make them out.

Well, that explains the bedroom’s impeccable décor. They must be at Donut’s place.

“Hey guys!” he chirps. “I was on my way to see if you wanted breakfast, and I couldn’t help hearing something about butts and— _oomph_!”

Donut is cut off by a pillow to the face.

“Donut, it’s too early for this crap,” Grif complains.

“Rude!” Donut huffs. “Well, _I_ see how it is!”

He strides up to the bed and thrusts the pillow back at Grif, who snatches it and turns onto his side. Because Donut is inches from his face, Simmons can now make out the words on his apron: ‘I have a heart on.’

God dammit.

“Breakfast is ready, if you want,” Donut declares. With that, he turns and marches out of the room. Simmons tries not to notice that the only thing the pink soldier’s wearing under his apron is a pair of fuchsia boxers.

“That’s my cue,” Grif says, rolling out of bed, taking his warmth with him.

_Of course_ , Simmons thinks. _Only food could get Dexter Grif out of bed that fast_.

He resists the urge to grab Grif and yank him back into bed, to fill in the gaping hole he’s left behind. Simmons should thank him—for being there, for getting rid of Donut. For getting him to Donut’s place safely.

But Grif shambles out of the room, and all that’s left is yet another missed opportunity.

Simmons sighs, grabs his glasses from the bedside table, and puts them on. Rather than get out of bed, he stares at the ceiling. Waits for the room to stop spinning. For his heart to stop racing.

“Fuck me,” he sighs.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Grif isn’t here,” comes a new voice from the doorway. “It’s just me.”

Simmons’s face goes hot. When will he learn to keep his big mouth shut?

He turns his head to see Doc standing next to him, omelet and coffee mug in hand. Despite his claim that he barely noticed his absence, Simmons is still getting used to having the medic around again.

“Huh? Oh, I was just, um, talking to… myself?” Way to go Simmons.

“Uh- _huh_ …” Doc raises an eyebrow, which disappears into his mop of disheveled brown hair. “Well, I brought you some food. If you want it, that is.”

Simmons detangles himself from the sheets and stands up. Once he’s certain he’s not going to pass out, he takes the plate and mug from Doc’s outstretched hands. That’s when he notices, much to his dismay, that Doc is clad only in boxers and a crumpled pink t-shirt.

Blinking furiously, Simmons concentrates on his food as if he’s studying for an exam.

“Thank you Doc this is great I’m going to go eat it now thanks,” he yammers before practically sprinting from the bedroom.

It takes a few twists and turns but Simmons finally finds the kitchen. Donut is busy preparing more omelets at the stove top. Doc strides into the kitchen and joins Donut at the stove.

There’s no way Simmons can handle _both_ of them right now. Hell, he can hardly handle them when he _doesn’t_ feel like his head’s about to explode.

“There must be a dining room. Or a patio,” Simmons mutters to himself. “If I can find a patio, maybe I can climb over the edge and escape this nightmare, find a Warthog and get the hell out of here.”

As luck would have it, there is a sliding glass door in the room adjacent to the kitchen. Through it, Simmons can see part of a wooden table and some chairs with a pink umbrella. Simmons, taking a quick sip of his coffee—fuck it’s delicious—slides open the door and scoots outside.

Grif is also out on the patio. His food is already gone, but he’s still nursing his coffee, which is clutched in his right hand. There’s a cigarette burning in his left.

Usually Simmons would scold Grif for smoking, but he spent all his energy running from Doc and Donut.

“You gonna sit or just stand there?”

Simmons starts, realizes he’s been staring at the smoke rising from Grif’s cigarette, and takes a seat before he can turn and run back inside.

Setting his plate on the table, Simmons admires the perfectly folded omelet, covered in cheese and green onions. His nose wrinkles a little; he hasn’t been able to stomach the scent of eggs for years, and he curses himself for taking the food in the first place. Kind of hard to eat a dish made almost entirely of eggs and cheese when you don’t eat eggs and cheese.

Grif, who has a sixth sense for this sort of thing (or he just remembers that Simmons is vegan), turns to Simmons and gestures to his breakfast. “You gonna eat that?”

Simmons slides the plate over to Grif, who digs in with a grin on his face. Simmons watches him as he eats, cradling his coffee to his chest and enjoying its warmth.

“You know, all things considered, last night was pretty fun,” Grif says through a mouthful of omelet.

“Yeah, for you maybe,” Simmons retorts. “I hardly remember anything.”

“Yeah,” Grif chuckles, “You were fucking smashed.”

Simmons just lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You sure can cut loose,” Grif adds. “For a nerd.”

“Great,” Simmons sighs. “I’m glad someone remembers how fun I was.”

“Well, the tequila helped,” Grif says, taking another drag from his cigarette.

_‘Helped’ is one way to put it_ , Simmons thinks.

“Oh, hey! Who won the drinking contest?” Simmons asks. Enough about him.

“Who do you think?” Grif replies, raising an eyebrow. “Carolina, obviously. Donut was a close second, though.”

“I’m surprised Donut didn’t die of alcohol poisoning,” Simmons says, peering over his shoulder as if Donut is listening at the door. He’s seen Carolina drink before; for her, two shots of tequila’s like drinking water.

“Please, we’re talking about the guy who took a grenade to the face, got crushed by a spaceship, and got shot in the chest,” Grif points out. “Pretty sure Donut’s immortal.”

“Yeah…” Simmons fidgets in his seat and tries not to think about that too much. Donut’s near death experiences have caused him enough anxiety to age him at least ten years.

Glancing over at Grif, Simmons notices Grif is also not wearing pants. Are pajamas out of style? He wonders, considering his own plaid ensemble. Trying to concentrate on anything other than Grif’s obnoxious yellow boxers, he looks out at the city.

Skyscrapers and smog clog the horizon. But the warm, orange glow from the morning sun contrasts with the dismal, gray buildings, and the view is not that unpleasant. It’s peaceful, even.

Speaking of peaceful…

“Where’s Sarge?” Simmons asks. Usually the man is up and wired for sound before the sun has even risen, and the peace and quiet suddenly seems odd. Which isn’t a bad thing, it just feels… odd.

“Sarge?” Grif taps some ash from his cigarette. “Let’s just say he had an appointment with his doctor last night.”

Simmons feels his face go hot as he chokes on his coffee.

“Fuck!” He half cries, half coughs.

If anything can make his headache go away, it’s the sound of Grif’s laughter as Simmons catches his breath and scrambles to dry off the coffee he’s just spilled all over his shirt.

“Hot,” Grif snorts.

“Fuck off, fat ass,” Simmons shoots back.

“Meh, whatever you say, Simmons.”

Grif doesn’t move.

They spend the rest of the morning in silence, drinking their coffee as the world wakes up around them.

 


End file.
